Saturday, August 6, 2016


I long for the time
I found you in the barn
beside what was left
of that year’s hay. 
It rained and howled,
reminding the world
God sheds blood.

Now I am back.
Days and nights and times
between have deserted me.
Only your picture shows me
what I know.

I am old.  My words
are issued from a deathbed.
The farm is gone, making room
for a suburb.  Stumps measure
every step through dusk.

We have come to place
our hands in darkness,
to pay each other all
we share, to forgive a life
that leaves us when we speak
and teaches us our ruin.

For months I have slept
with rumors of pain.  My back
feels like a staircase.  My voice
is a makeshift habit that sometimes
tells a friend how your eyes descend
from my memory, how they always
find me young.

Joel Fry

Published in Poetry Superhighway.

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